said Lindsay, looking superciliously at his visitor. “I can’t see you now.”
“Just a moment, Mr Lindsay. Listen, please.”
Noting the grave face and serious voice of the speaker, young Lindsay seemed to become panic-stricken.
“What is it?” he said, in a gasping whisper. “Oh, what is it?”
“Why do you look like that?” Prescott said quickly. “What do you think it is?”
“I don’t know—I’m sure! Tell me!”
The boy, for he was little more than a boy, was ghastly white, his hands trembled and his lips quivered. He took hold of a chair back to steady himself, and Prescott, remembering what he had been told of Miss Lindsay, was tempted to ask for her. But he somehow felt he must go on with this scene.
“It’s about your uncle—or rather your step-uncle—Mr Gleason.”
Lindsay slumped into a chair, and raised his wild, staring black eyes to Prescott’s face.
“Go on,” he muttered; “what about him?”
“Didn’t you expect him here to-night?”
“Yes—yes—and he didn’t come—what is it? Has anything happened? What has happened? Who did it?”
“Who did what?” Prescott flung the words at him, in a fierce low tone. “What do you know? Out with it!”
His menacing air quite finished the young man, and he buried his face in his hands, sobbing convulsively.
A slight rustle was heard, and a lovely vision appeared in the doorway.
“What is going on?” said a clear young voice. “Louis, what is the matter?”
Phyllis Lindsay faced the stranger as she put her query.
The sight nearly dazzled Prescott, for Miss Lindsay was at her best that night.
She was a little thing, with soft dark hair, bundled about her ears, soft, dark eyes, that were now challenging Prescott sternly, and a slim, dainty little figure, robed in sequin-dripping gauze, from which her soft neck and shoulders rose like a flower from its sheath.
“Who are you?” she asked, not rudely, but with her eyes wide in dismay. “What are you doing to my brother?”
“Miss Lindsay?” and Prescott bowed politely. “I bring distressing news. Your uncle—that is, Mr Robert Gleason, is—has—well, perhaps frankness is best—he is dead.”
“Robert Gleason!” Phyllis turned as pale as her brother, but preserved her calm. “Tell me—tell me all about it.”
She, too, placed her little hand on a chair, as if the grip of something solid helped, and turned her anxious eyes to Prescott.
“I thought better to tell you young people,” he began, “and let you tell your mother—Mr Gleason’s sister.”
“Yes; I will tell her,” said Phyllis, with dignity. “Go on, Mr——”
“Prescott,” he supplied. “The facts in brief are these. Mr Gleason called up Doctor Davenport on the telephone, and asked the doctor to come to him, as he was—well, hurt. When the doctor reached there, Mr Gleason was dead.”
“What killed him?” Phyllis spoke very quietly, and looked Prescott straight in the face. Yet the alert eyes of the detective saw her fingers clench more tightly on the chair, and noticed her red lips lose a little color as they set themselves in a firm line.
He thought her even more beautiful thus, than when she had first arrived, smiling.
“The Medical Examiner is not quite sure, Miss Lindsay. It may be that he took his own life—or it may be——”
“That he was—murdered,” she said, her gaze never wavering from Prescott’s face.
It was a bit disconcerting, and the detective oddly felt himself at a disadvantage. Yet he went on, inexorably.
“Yes; either deduction is possible.”
“How—how was he killed?”
At last her calm gave way a little. The tremor of her voice as she asked this question proved her not so self-controlled as she had seemed.
“He was shot.” Prescott watched both brother and sister as he spoke. But Louis still kept his face hidden in his hands, and Phyllis was once more perfectly calm.
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